Plummeting
by IEatBooksForTea
Summary: 'Josh is strange. Inside, he's so swirling in alcohol and people. He's obnoxious, wild and breaking vases. But out here? He's stripped back. Simple and obvious. Like a boy.' Samantha finds fate irrational, and coincidences interchangeable. That's why she was never meant to fall in love with Joshua Washington. And yet here she is, doing the exact opposite. Set before the game events


I was never meant to fall in love with the infamous Josh Washington.

Oh sure, my best friend just happened to be his sister. And our families just happened to spend pretty much every Christmas together. And we just _happened_ to be each other's prom dates because there just _happened_ to be no one else. But those were just happenings. Coincidences. Not fate. Not destiny.

Besides, it didn't even feel like falling. It was more like plummeting - crashing against walls, ripping skin and breaking bones on the way down. Plummeting. Plummeting in love.

"Mom is going to _kill_ me," Hannah groans as her pink-nail chipped fingers pick at the shards of vase buried between the the cracked floorboards of the Washington lodge. She hisses, a sharp piece clattering from her hand, and she immediately does CPR on her cut finger, sucking at the red, puckered skin.

"Are you alright?" I ask, abandoning my own collecting of the smashed, probably-worth-a-million-dollars vase, immediately ready to go on a band-aid search mission. I could do with a break from being perpetually crouched on the floor, legs aching and back arched.

"He doesn't even care," Hannah grumbles, her eyes too distracted by her gurglingly drunk brother in the background to hear me.

Joshua Washington. The culprit who managed to single-handedly smash a priceless, Ming vase while looking for somewhere to puke up in.

Also he's the same guy who's sleazily sidling up to a terrified Ashley at this current moment. The irony of it is that she's the least likely girl (sisters not included) at this whole party to ever get into a bed with him. For one, she's hopelessly infatuated with Josh's best friend - who's definitely the reason she's trying out a skin tight, maroon dress (one she looks pretty uncomfortable in) - and for another, I'm pretty sure she's not the one-night-stand type.

The other irony is that if he asked me, I'd probably say yes.

How useless is that?

"Yeah," I mutter, knowing I'm thinking about something completely different to Hannah. If she knew, she'd probably make an 'ew' face and tell me to get a room. "He doesn't care."

She grumbles again, muttering about how much she hates alcohol and brothers and Ming vases.

I'm beginning to think I hate the exact same things.

It could have been different. That's the thing about fate - you can't change it, no matter how hard you try. Fate is aggressive like that. If it was a person, it would be one of those old school, New York gangster types. _Hey! I'm walkin' 'ere!_

But coincidences? Happenings? Those are like coins. You can exchange them in for better ones.

Right now, though, it feels like it's too late. The counter is closed. No more exchanges allowed.

It was my fault. I'd been too proud to admit anything, even to myself.

"Sam?" Josh had whispered to me once, between the quilts of darkness. "You awake?"

I had the sleeping bag tucked up to my chin, sleeping Hannah and Beth curled up beside me on the floor. And there Josh was, peaking his head around the door frame, the gentle flicker of a candle behind him.

"What is it?" I'd croaked, keeping my vice down. I'd blinked, adjusting to the depth of the darkness, tracing my eyes over the shapes of Hannah's bedroom.

Josh had shrugged, shuffling on the spot, his eyes glancing over his sister's to make sure they were still asleep. "Just wanted to get some water. Thought you'd maybe like to come with."

 _Go with him_ , the lurch in my stomach had urged me. _This could mean something. This could lead to something._ His eyes had sparkled so much then. I was like a magpie, wanting them. Wanting him. I'd ached.

But my bones had been made of led. They had melted into the floorboards, stopping me from going anywhere. He was untouchable. He was my best friend's brother. He was the infamous Josh Washington.

My pride was too heavy for me. It was suffocating.

I couldn't. The possibilities were too dangerous. Like the edge of a cliff. Like a tightrope.

"Nah," my voice was broken and I rubbed my eyes, an excuse not to look at him. "I'm alright. Good night, Josh."

I'd buried my face in my sleeping bag, listening to Josh's empty breathing.

Then; "Alright. Night, Sammy."

His voice had sounded so broken.

And then the door had clicked closed and he was gone.

And so was my chance.

"Hey. You girls alright?" Matt's rumbling voice calls above us.

I glance up at him, a sarcastic flash of a smile on my face. "We're _great_ , thanks. We'll be cleaning the bathroom next and then making the beds so you better get your requests in soon!"

Matt chuckles - though I'm pretty sure he doesn't get the joke - and slings his jacket over his shoulders, red paper cup in his hand. He looks as Washington as you can get without actually being a Washington. He just fits in with the landscape - the smooth, popular jock, bubbling with the promise of money. Even his rich skin melts in with the Lodge's wooden walls.

It's like he was built out of them.

I'm pretty sure I'm the opposite.

"Hey, Matt," Hannah pipes up, pointing a finger at him. "Can you go and tell my brother he's a tadpole?"

"What?" Matt stares at her like she just told him that Marilyn Monroe was actually an international spy for the Russians. Not that he'd know who Marilyn Monroe was anyway.

"She wants you to tell Josh that he's an asshole," I sigh, once again being Hannah's translator.

The funny thing about Hannah is that, ever since I've known her, she's always hated to curse. Instead, she tends to pick words that rhyme. Her vocabulary consists of such words as _custard, twitch_ and _duck_.

"I'll," Matt fumbles with his words, jabbing his thumb towards the kitchen and consequentially, the alcohol. "Just go get her a drink."

"Yeah, because _that_ 'll help," I mutter sarcastically, before sighing and pushing myself to my feet and surveying the remains of the vase. I just want to push it under the rug and hide it. It looks like a broken egg on the floor, spilling out like blood. Unrepairable.

It feels like my heart.

I want to sweep that under the rug too.

"Maybe we can fix this," Hannah desperately clings onto the larger pieces of the vase, trying to hopelessly fit them together like a puzzle.

"Yeah, you try that," I sigh before stumbling away. I've had enough of broken vases and broken hearts.

"Josh!" A sharp voice cuts across the heads of people cramming the lodge.

My head jerks in the direction of it. I can't help it. I'm like a magnet to Josh's name. I instantly react whenever I hear it.

Chris pushes through the room, eyes fixed on Josh - who's still draping himself over Ashley, although at this point he might be even more drunk. And possibly about to puke all over her.

"Bro!" Josh slurs, grinning sheepishly, flinging his hands up into the air away from cat. And incidentally almost stumbling and falling backwards.

Chris glares at his best friend - a silent, hissed message of, 'what are you doing? you know I like her!' - before diverting his attention to Ashley. His features soften. I can't stop watching - what? It's like a chick flick. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Boy can't tell girl how he feels. Boy and girl eventually get together and live happily ever after.

But at the rate that this is going, they might never get to that last stage.

"Are you okay?" Is Chris's whispered concern, before he gently eases her away from her _attacker_.

Ashley nods stiffly, bare arms wrapped around her torso, her body shivering and most likely traumatised. I don't blame her.

And then Chris does that cliche, romantic move and pulls his thick jumper from around his shoulders and drapes it around hers. Someone has taught him well.

"See!" I sigh to myself, flinging my hand out in their direction. "That's what I want!"

"What? _Chris_?"

I jerk my head up to see a smug Mike making a face beside me.

"I hate to break it to you," he places a hand on my shoulder, his other holding one of those infamous red cups, and sighs dramatically. "But I'm pretty sure his heart is all ready taken."

I make a face at him and shove his hand off.

"I mean, he already admitted his love to me last night. Didn't you hear us getting it-"

"Ugh!" I shove him violently and he lets out a sharp laugh, stumbling and spilling some of his alcohol. Drip drip drip on the floorboards below. "I _meant_..." I sigh, watching the endlessly friend zoned Chris and Ashley duo off in the distance and frowning. "It would be kind of nice to have someone to care for _me_ like that." Even if it's cliche. Even if it's friend zoned.

"Why didn't you say so, babe?!" Mike grins, sluggishly grabbing for his jacket and attempting to throw them - very unromantically - over my own shoulders. Instead, it collides very dramatically with my forehead before clattering to he ground.

"Shove off," I laugh, stepping back and watching him trip over his own feet, catching himself in mid-air. Like one of those comical dance moves. Like he's about to fall off a cliff. "Go get some with your own girlfriend."

Mike makes a face at me, a twisted sort of pout. Then, like a light switch, his drunken expression morphs into one of consideration, eyebrows raised, bottom lip stuck out. "Good idea," he mods before swinging violently around - almost knocking over another priceless artefact - and cupping his free hand around his mouth. "Em!"

And then I'm pretty sure he starts thrusting his hips.

And I want to die.

 _Why am I in a lodge with these people?_ I shake my head, partly amused, partly cringing. Very sensibly backing away, I hold my drink free hands up in surrender. _I do not know him. I do not know him. Mike Monroe? Mike Monroe who-?_

"Whoa!"

My back collides into the soft flesh of a body. Alcohol sloshes and splashes. I think some of it spits onto my hair. I groan. I cringe. And I'm pretty heavily hoping they're not one of those angry drunks.

 _Sorry I didn't see you there. Sorry I made you spill your vodka,_ I mutter, slowly turning around while simultaneously practicing my apology speech. Or, if the worst comes to the worst, my nose breaking skills. _Sorry that you're dumb enough to be drinking in the first place-_

"Sammy?"

I choke. All the words I was about to say clog my throat.

Because that drunkenly handsome smile makes me forget all of them. The one that is gazing down at me, accompanied by groggy, half lidded eyes and a perfectly chiselled jawline.

Damn that jawline.

"Hi Josh," I wheeze, watching him tilt his head like one of those ridiculously cute dogs in those 'Donate $1 per month' adverts. The ones you just can't say no to. The ones you'd empty your bank account for.

Those kind.

"Sorry I spilled your vodka-" I finally splutter out, swearing at my overly recycled lines. I'm all for recycling - but paper. And plastic. Not apologies.

My eyes glance down at the red cup in his hand... And the liquid soaking into his shirt, the one that just happens to be clinging pretty heavily to his torso. I swallow. I bite my lip.

Okay, sorry not sorry.

"Like what you're seeing, Sammy?" Josh teases, wiggling his eyebrows. He tries to elbow me but ends up losing his balance and stumbling on the spot. If his drink wasn't already gone, it would have flooded the floor by now. I glare at him. For a drunk guy, he's got pretty good perceptive skills.

"You wish," I groan, but I can't help smirking.

He spots it, his eyes sparkling, as I push past him, eyeing up the enticement of the balcony.

The fresh air tastes so tempting right now.

The balcony door swings open as I step outside, drinking the fresh air like everyone else is drinking vodka.

My ears are programmed to hear Josh following me.

"You don't have to follow me, Josh," I sigh out loud, finally letting my shoulders droop. _You're not really a dog_.

Josh doesn't say anything. Instead, he stumbles towards the balcony, as door creaks closed behind us, and throws up over the side.

I gag.

"Thanks, Josh," my voice strains as I try to hold in my own vomit, cringing.

"No prob," he throws his hand up in the air casually, his voice muffled, his head is still hovering over the railing. "Any time."

I grimace, turning my face away. Pleasant.

The thing about Josh Washington is that he's never predictable. Sure, he seems like one of those guy's who's constantly smoking weed and drowning himself in booze.

But then you see him out here, in the wild, his frozen breath dancing among tree leaves and moonlight and you wonder if he ever existed in the first place.

If he's ever even been human.

Because he's the kind of guy who'll smoke at the back of the bike racks, but then willingly sit through Gilmore Girls just to spend time with his sisters. He'll drone on about sex one minute, and then recite the whole elements table just to win a battle with his best friend the next. He'll be so soaked into a video game about devouring armies, and then be so alive out here, among the wild winds and spearhead trees and dripping shadows.

And the woman in love with him.

"I didn't actually think you'd come," he finally breathes, his forearms resting against the cold wood of the railing, his eyes fixed on a dead point in the distance. Somewhere between the mountains and the moon.

"Of course I came," I laugh, piecing my way towards him. I wrinkle my nose, pretending I can't smell the stench of the vomit. "Hannah's my best friend."

Josh breaks out in a self-deprecating laugh. "Of course," he sighs. " _Best friends._ "

I breathe, fixing my eyes on him, feeling confusion blooming in my chest.

Josh is strange. Inside, he's so swirling in alcohol and people. He's obnoxious, wild and breaking vases.

But out here? He's stripped back. Simple and obvious. Like a boy. Like the Josh that night at the sleepover. The one who had peaked his head round that door. The one who was looking for water. Looking for me.

And yet he's not obvious at all. Because, right now, I can't even read his face. It's dipped in shadows. Even the moonlight can't break his skin. It's making me nervous.

And not nervous at all. Because I'm in love with Josh Washington. Stupidly, impossibly in love with him. And love is irrational.

"Maybe next time," he mutters, running fingers through his hair, "You'll come for me."

"Maybe next time," I step towards him, feeling a smile tug at my lips, even though my heart is thumping ridiculously. And I just want to hold him, like Chris holds Ashley, like Mike holds his alcohol cup. Like Hannah holds onto hope. "You won't drunk so much."

He glances up at me, a smirk pulling at the side of his mouth.

That hideously attractive smirk. Those glistening eyes. That damn jawline.

"You look pretty tonight, Samantha," he grins, his hand grazing the side of my face. My breath hitches. His eyes latch onto mine.

"I would say the same about you," I whisper, hearing him chuckle and feeling myself smirk. "But I'd be lying."

He laughs. I breathe.

I fall in love.

"Can I?" He finally asks, a whisper of a breath, the most sincere I've ever heard him. He looks at me like he looks at the moon.

I feel him move closer to me because I can't look at him anymore. My heart thumps too loudly, too unbearably that I'm sure he can feel it.

I was never meant to do this. I was never meant to feel this.

I feel his lips near mine. His breath shivers on my skin. I quiver. I capture. I live.

Then;

Jerkingly, he stumbles back, his throat retching as he sends another meal over the side of the balcony.

I snap my eyes open sharply. He clutches the railing, gagging. I splutter out a cringing laugh, feeling my heart flutter and retch at the same time. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He grimaces; "You do that."

He wheezes.

I laugh.

This is Josh Washington.

This is me.

Plummeting in love.


End file.
